A Beginner's Guide to Disgracing SHIELD
by sarsaparillia
Summary: As Told By Skye Amelia May. (Or, that one where Melinda May adopted Skye when she was just a tiny baby, and nice things are had all around except by Agent Ward because he's a robot.) — Team Bus, plus basically everyone in SHIELD ever.
1. the mother we share

**disclaimer**: disclaimed.  
**dedication**: to Rachel I hope you _cry_  
**notes**: AHAHAHAHAHA don't look at me

**title**: the mother we share  
**summary**: Melinda May comes back from The Incident with empty eyes and awed whispers trailing after her heels. This is right about then that she hears about the new 084, and makes a decision. — Melinda, Skye.

—

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Melinda May came back from _The Incident_ different.

She came back quiet, empty-eyed, with the intangible stink of spilled blood hanging around her like a mantle. There was no trace of the smirking snarky girl who'd lived in her body to be found: this woman had aged a hundred years, and killed a thousand men in the meantime. The whispers clung to her heels; a little awed, a little strangled. She'd heard them all, and had nothing to say.

Melinda May was a shell, and SHIELD Headquarters were the last place she wanted to be.

She didn't look anyone in the eye as she made her report. Agent Coulson stood a few steps behind her.

(She'd thought she'd loved him once.)

"Well, Agent May, you've earned a well-deserved break—"

"No," said Melinda.

It was the first word she'd spoken.

"No?" Directing Officer Agent Victoria Hand raised a single, sculpted eyebrow. No one said _no_ to breaks. No one.

"_No_," Melinda repeated, obstinately. It was the only thing she could think of. No, she couldn't take a break. No, she couldn't stop and rest. _No_, she couldn't. She had to keep moving, had to keep doing things or she would—she would—

Agent Hand's other eyebrow raised to sit high on her forehead with its twin, and stayed there. "You _don't_ want vacation time?"

"No," Melinda said for the third time.

"Then what _do_ you want?"

"Another mission," she said, pressed her lips tight together in a thin line across her face. _If I'm not useful, I might as well have died back there_, she thought but didn't say. Agent Hand still watched her skeptically. It looked like she was about to ask for ask Melinda if she was _sure_ she didn't want the time off, but then decided against it.

"Fine," the woman said, red-painted lips parting over even white teeth. "The 084 needs to be moved. We were going to send some of the older Agents, but—" she stopped, looked Melinda over, shrugged. "You'll do. Here's the file."

Melinda took it from her extended hand without comment.

"Dismissed," said Agent Hand.

Melinda was out of there fast as a bullet. The sleek glass-and-chrome door swung shut behind her, but not before she heard:

"Phil, what _happened_ out there?"

And a sigh from her SO: "You don't even want to know, Torie."

Melinda clenched her jaw, and opened the file.

—

And that was how she learned of the 084.

Skye.

A little girl with no last name, barely three years old, wide brown eyes and waves in her long dark hair. Melinda was tasked with moving the kid from one foster home to another—the woman who was her current foster mother bit her lips.

"Can't I keep her? She's so little, and she just called me Mommy for the first time—!"

"No," Melinda said, and nothing else.

The woman looked away. "She's upstairs. Her bag is packed."

Melinda nodded, but that was all. She didn't have time to waste her breath; they'd said this was supposed to be _dangerous_, Level Nine clearance, one below Director Fury himself. Moving a kid _hardly_ constituted this level of caution. Whatever. May wasn't in this for the pay, anyway.

The little girl was sitting on a pink bed trimmed with white lace.

"You're here to take me away, aren't you," she said, flatly, little-girl voice pitched low in the sun-drenched room. "Is it because I called Ms. Luke Mommy? I didn't mean to."

"No," Melinda said. She'd forgotten how to shape other words. Her mouth wasn't right, couldn't form the vowels or the consonants. Just _no_. She'd probably never say another word again, but she couldn't bring herself to care. Apathy was easier, anyway.

The girl looked up at her. "Let's go."

Something in those wide brown eyes slammed into Melinda's stomach. She struggled for a minute. "Get your things, we're leaving," she managed.

"Don't want 'em," the kid said.

Melinda didn't question that.

The girl left the room first, the waves of her hair like the ocean before it disappeared down the stairs.

She picked up the bag. She didn't know why. It was just as pink as the rest of the room. There were probably stuffed toys inside, little bits of love from a woman who'd only had the girl for a year. It seemed important.

Melinda should have left it where it lay.

But she didn't.

And that was her fatal mistake.

"You weren't supposed t' bring it," the girl said when Melinda deposited the bag in her lap. She had no doubt that the kid hadn't said goodbye to her foster mother—Melinda knew that fiercely independent look on that tiny face: the upturned nose and the unfiltered rage were all a childhood thing, but real and vulnerable and _scared_. The girl looked down at her bag before she shoved it off of her to the floor. "You _weren't_."

"We don't always get what we want, kid," Melinda said.

The words were coming easier. She didn't question that, either.

"My name's _Skye_," the girl said, still fiercely forcing away any emotion. "An' she di'n' love me, so I don' _care_."

The urge to reach over and ruffle the kid's hair was a surprise.

"Sometime," Melinda's voice cracked a little. "Sometimes people don't know how to love right."

Skye was quiet for a moment, before she shuffled a little closer and tucked herself under Melinda's arm. Her voice was very soft when she asked "Do you love anyone?"

"Not anymore," Melinda said, quietly, truthfully. She didn't push the kid away; in fact, she tucked her more securely under her arm, kept her close and safe the way no one had ever before, probably. Skye curled there in the hollows of Melinda's body like she'd been doing it all her life, pressed her head to Melinda's chest to listen to her heartbeat.

"Why di'n' she love me?" Skye asked, tiny body quivering.

"I don't know, Skye," Melinda said. "I don't know."

As far as her training had gone, crying three-year-olds were not 084-classification. She didn't have the training _necessary_ to deal with crying three-year-olds on top of her own issues, but it was nothing Melinda couldn't handle. She'd had cousins. She could deal with this shit. Better than thinking about—

"Want to get some ice cream?" Melinda asked.

Skye lit up like a tree on Christmas. "With sprinkles?"

"With sprinkles," Melinda affirmed.

"_Cool_," Skye said. She'd managed to undo her seatbelt and climb into Melinda's lap without actually alerting Melinda that she'd done it. The kid was good. "Wake me up when we get there, 'kay?"

"'Kay," Melinda echoed.

She really had no idea what she'd just agreed to.

It was only ice cream, after all.

—

"I want her," Melinda said.

"_What_?!"

"Skye. I want to keep her."

"No."

"You _owe_ me, Agent Hand."

"Keeping an 084 and vacation days are two _very_ different things, Agent May!"

"I don't _care_," Melinda said fiercely, sparking up like she hadn't since The Incident. There was an echo of the person she'd been, there, in the spark; if only she could grab a hold of it and drag her back to herself. "Skye needs someone, we can't keep bouncing her around from foster home to foster home."

"No!"

"Fine," May breathed heavily through her nose. "I'll take it up with Fury."

And she did.

Which was how, six hours later, Melinda rolled into her apartment with Skye sleeping soundly on her shoulder.

"We're home, baby girl," Melinda said softly when Skye yawned and curled closer. "It's okay. We're home. I got you. I'm not going anywhere."

This was about as good as it was going to get.

For now, anyway.

—

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_fin_.

**notes2**: here have another one-shot colletion**  
notes3**: literally I have no control goodbye


	2. feels like (a coming of age)

**disclaimer**: disclaimed.  
**dedication**: to Mamo-chan.  
**notes**: barfs.

**title**: feels like (a coming of age)  
**summary**: Director Fury does not like babysitting duty for A LOT OF REASONS. — Skye, Melinda, Fury.

—

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Skye was five years old when she realized that her family was not like other families.

Other families lived in houses on streets. Other mothers did not teach their daughters a blend of tai chi and hand-to-hand combat to protect themselves. Other fathers did not wear suits and carry guns. And most important, other families were actually _related_ to each other.

Skye's family, by the standards of other families, was a _hot mess_.

Skye's family consisted of a mother and a father and about fifteen aunts and twenty-nine uncles (most of whom wore hideous sunglasses _all the time_). Sky's family also consisted of computers, lots of planes, and one big black guy that everyone else deferred to that Skye just called One Eye, because that was exactly what he had.

By the time she turned ten, things were… well, literally exactly the same, except she knew why everyone kept secrets, and she'd hacked the FBI three times. And also, One Eye was now Old Man Fury, and Skye was basically the bane of his existence.

(Actually, she was the bane of everyone in SHIELD's existence, but what_ever_, it wasn't Skye's fault that computers were totally easy and that changing everyone's backgrounds to ridiculous pictures of cats was the best pastime _ever_.)

She was flopped down on her mother's bed, flicking through some of SHIELD's Level Six access files—and yeah, okay, she was technically only Level Two, but if Old Man Fury didn't want her looking at this shit, he would make it a little harder to break into—when she stopped dead. She squinted at the screen for a moment, scrolled up, scrolled down, and then—

"MOM!"

Melinda May appeared in the doorway in an instant, a tiny downwards quirk to her mouth. "Skye? Are you alright?"

"I didn't know we were going to Istanbul! Why didn't you tell me, it's seriously not safe there right now, what is that old man thinking, I'm gonna kick him—"

Melinda sighed. "This is part of my job, Skye. And there is no _we_. You're right, it is dangerous. You're staying here."

"Ugh," Skye groaned. She knew that tone of voice—there was no arguing with her mother when she got like this. "So who's on babysitting duty _this_ time? I am _ten_, Mom, I can stay here alone for a couple of days."

"It won't just be a couple of days, Skye," Melinda said, and folded her hands in her lap. She looked at her daughter, with her legs crossed underneath her slim, SHIELD-issued laptop, and sighed again.

"…How long are you gonna be gone, Mom?"

"Longer than a week, shorter than a month."

Skye made a squeaky unhappy noise, and then a moment later, Melinda found herself bowled over and clutched at tightly, Skye's thin fingers tangling in the soft fabric of Melinda's dark shirt.

"A _month_? Am I staying with Dad?"

"Your father's leading my team, Skye," Melinda said gently. She wrapped her arms around the girl, hummed the old lullaby that Melinda's mother had sang to her as a child. It was the only song she knew.

Skye stared, horrified. "Wait, so if Dad's out with you, then who am I staying with? Aunt Maria? Uncle Clint? Aunt _Tasha_?"

Melinda gave Skye the flattest look. "If it's up to me, you and Agent Barton won't be in the same room until you turn thirty and know how to rip a man's intestines out through his throat. Agent Hill is in New York. And Agent Romanoff's whereabouts are classified."

"Uncle Clint's the only _fun_ one," Skye muttered. "New York like the city, or New York like Westchester, New York?"

"Have you been hacking your father's itinerary, again?"

"No," Skye blinked innocently. "I'm just saying. NYC's great, but the Xavier Institute for Higher Learning is in Westchester, and Aunt Maria doesn't get along very well with the X-Men. She's still afraid they're gonna blow up the moon."

"Do you blame her?" Melinda muttered under her breath. "Regardless. No. You're staying with Director Fury."

Skye lit up like Christmas tree. "Old Man _Fury_? I get to stay with Old Man Fury for a _month_? Mom, are you for _real_?"

"Don't make his life too hard, Skye," Melinda said, one eyebrow raised slightly. "He _is_ my boss."

"Oh, please, Mom. He won't hear a peep out of me. I'll be good."

"I wish Agent Romanoff hadn't taught you to lie."

Skye stuck her nose in the air. "She said it was an important part of a SHIELD Agent's training, and that no one's a better liar than she is. And, seriously, _how_ many people can say they learned to lie from the Black Widow? Oh, right, just one. Me!"

"_Skye_," Melinda said sternly.

Skye snickered, and then tucked herself under her mother's arm. "Can I at least go harass the Academy recruits? Those nerds need some cheering up."

"You're a terror," Melinda said, but her voice was quietly fond. "Don't scar them for life."

"If they can't take a ten-year-old, Mom, they can't handle SHIELD."

Well, Melinda reasoned, that certainly was true.

Skye changed tracks quickly, however, and was already asking more questions. "Are you bringing me something back? Can it be a monkey? Can you even _get_ monkeys in Istanbul? Is—"

"Slow down," Melinda said, lips quirking upwards. "It's not a surprise if I tell you, is it?"

"I really want a monkey," Skye sighed. "Monkeys are great."

"_You_ are a monkey, I don't see why you want one as a pet."

A great big laugh escaped Skye's body, trembling with an edge of panic that Melinda knew all too well. There was still a part of Skye—a small, terrified, little-girl part—that was still scared that one day, and one day soon, she was going to be left alone.

Melinda knew that fear as well as the back of her hand.

"I'll bring you back something good," Melinda told her.

"Promise?" Skye asked.

"Promise," Melinda said.

And that was that.

—

Two days later, Skye stood on the landing strip, waving manically as her mother and her father and three other Agents (Collins, McAdam, Lex) boarded.

"I'LL TAKE CARE OF LOLA FOR YOU," she shouted over the wind.

Her father's glare could have cut a person in half.

Skye laughed, high and bright, and then turned to look up at the man standing at her side.

"So," she said, grinning, "what can I do first?"

"You," Fury said, "are going to the Academy to be with kids your _own age_."

"Uh, _no_, I'm _definitely_ not. You've got a meeting with Star—"

"Have you been hackin' my personal files again, Agent May?"

"That's _Junior_ Agent May to you, old man," Skye smiled smarmily. "I totally have a badge and _everything_."

Fury ran his hands down his face. "Lettin' Agent May keep you was the stupidest ass decision I ever did make."

"It's okay, old man," Skye said sympathetically, and patted his arm. "I won't bother you too much. I just want to _look _at him."

"Your mother is never going to forgive me. You know how she feels about that particular multi-billionaire."

Skye's smile was mischievousness incarnate. "What she doesn't know can't hurt her, right?"

Fury looked down at her, and girl and man surveyed each other.

"You been spending too much time with Romanova."

"Aunt Tasha _likes_ me," Skye said imperiously. "Which is more than I can say about _you_."

Fury was decidedly unimpressed.

"C'mon, kid," he said. "We should eat."

"You _eat_?"

Fury pinched the bridge of his nose, and tried to prepare himself for what was likely to be one of the most trying months of his life.

And it most certainly was.

Skye was a brat on good days and a hellion on bad days, and she was forever sneaking into the restricted sections of the buildings because there was not a single Agent who could say _no_ to the girl (with the notable exception of one Agent Victoria Hand; however, Agent Hand was particularly attached to the girl, and most often thought that her shenanigans were the best thing since sliced bread. He despaired for the future of SHIELD). Fury spent more of his time chasing after her and stopping her from breaking into sealed vaults than he did paperwork, and that was saying something: Fury spent a _lot_ of his time doing paperwork.

He'd thought when he'd gotten to this point, the grunt work would have been minimal (or would have at least would have outsourced to minions). But _apparently not_.

Fury found Skye sitting on his desk, legs crossed, poking boredly at the holocron he'd been painstakingly trying to crack for the last week.

"Man," she said, "these guys are _boring_. You'd think Stark would at least have something _interesting_ to hide, but _noooo_, everything's straight-cut, profit-oriented… I bet his board hates him, though."

Fury sighed. "How long you been at that, kid?"

Skye shrugged, grimacing. "Eh, half an hour? I dunno, I was bored."

"And you ain't found nothin'."

"Not yet? There's some weird encryption here—I need—"

She wiggled her fingers at something on the holocron, and it swirled and changed, bright iridescent blue.

"Theeeere we go," Skye snickered. "That's what I—" She stopped, and then looked up. "Hey, old man? You might wanna come see this."

"What am I looking at, Agent May?"

"_Junior_ Agent May, get it right," she sniffed.

"_Agent May_," he said, "I _asked_ you a _question_."

Skye sighed theatrically. "You're mean, old man. And… I don't know. It kinda looks like… well, it shouldn't be possible?"

"What do you _mean_, Agent May?"

"Look," she said, "I have this friend at the Academy. This?" she gestured at the holocron. "This looks like something he'd be working on. Looks like—"

Fury waited as Skye continued to squint at the screen.

"Looks like AI tech, old man. Fitz said it wasn't possible, just highly imporbable but like? Really? I don't _think_ so."

"You sure, kid?"

Skye flopped one too-skinny shoulder up and down. "Pretty sure, yeah."

"Well," he said, "lucky you. Your parents are comin' back early. Looks like I got an important new job for 'em."

Skye nodded. "_Finally_. You're the worst cook ever, old man. You know that?

"Shut it," Fury said, "I think you need to visit our tech department, kid. You could teach 'em a thing or two, Junior Agent May."

Skye grinned. "_Cool_."

—

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_fin_.


	3. nothing scares me anymore

**disclaimer**: disclaimed.  
**dedication**: to Rachel. uh. again.  
**notes**: laughs weakly REMEMBER WHEN CANON DIDN'T HURT SO MUCH  
**notes2**: this is a short little motherfucker for reasons

**title**: nothing scares me anymore  
**summary**: Agent Ward graduates the SHIELD Academy at nineteen, and this is the end of his life as he knows it. — Grant/Skye.

—

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SHIELD.

Grant Ward had been dreaming of the place for as long as he could remember; it was violence in the name of justice, and that was something he could _do_. They needed people like him—ruthless people, people who didn't regret, people who didn't feel guilt and who only saw targets and objectives.

Grant Ward could do that.

And so, when he graduated the SHIELD Academy at all of nineteen and was handed his SHIELD badge, there was a part of him that swelled with something like pride. The rest of him stayed cool (or as cool as Grant Ward could ever be), and when he walked through the Triskelion's doors for the first time in his brand new suit, he felt the first real sense of accomplishment he'd had in a long, long time.

Sadly, it lasted all of about thirteen minutes, because after thirteen minutes, Agent Grant Ward met the girl that was going to be the bane of his existence for the rest of his life.

She was standing on Level Four clearance with a clipboard in hand, hip popped out, snapping her gum like a heathen. Her denim cutoffs were frayed, loose white graphic tank layered beneath a leather jacket, and when she looked at him, it was from behind dark aviators.

She flipped her hair, snapped violently pink bubblegum in his face, and then said "Jesus, Robot-9000, where ya been?"

The world tilted on its axis a little bit.

The girl had continued, oblivious to his distress. "You're _late_, and the old man's about to blow his top. I'd get up there, if I were you," she said, shaking long dark curls away from her face. "Ugh, and take this with you, I don't wanna deal with it anymore. Tell him that, from me."

She tossed the clipboard at him, snapped her gum another time, and flounced away like it was nothing. The _clunk_ of her black leather boots was loud against the sleek chrome silence of the hallway.

Grant Ward stared after her, jaw almost loose with surprise.

What the _hell_ was a girl in _civvies_ doing in SHIELD?

When he finally gathered himself enough to call after her (and really, it only took him fifteen seconds, which was ten seconds longer than it should have), he looked to realize that she was already gone.

All that was left was an echo of sugar-sweet perfume.

Grant pinched the bridge of his nose.

He had a report to make.

—

"I don' do this often, Agent Ward."

"I understand, sir," Grant said, hands folded in front of him.

Director Fury—_Director Fury_—was standing in front of him, pacing back and forth in a long leather trench coat. He looked directly at Grant, then, and raised an eyebrow. "I am gonna assume you're not stupid, Agent Ward, which is more than I assume about _most_ people."

Well, _that_ was a backhanded compliment if Grant had ever heard one.

"But that's not what I called you here to talk about. Your SO. Agent Garret."

Grant tensed. There were a lot of ways this could go, and none of them were in his favour.

"I know about HYDRA," Director Fury said. "And I know he's in on it. Means you're in on it, too, huh?"

And that, well, that definitely was not what Grant had been expecting. He'd been expecting praise or violence but not this frank level tone that spoke of someone who had been dealing with three-year-old tantruming children for that last three hours and had no patience left to deal with the elder child who just punched themselves in the face.

"Director Fury, if I may—" Grant started.

"No, you may not," Director Fury said. "Sit down, Agent Ward, we need to have a talk about your future in SHIELD."

And that was how it started, more or less. It wasn't a long conversation; it didn't need to be. Grant sat there and listened, mouth closed, while Director Fury paced back and forth and spoke until his voice sounded hoarse.

"As for the other Agents…"

"I understand," Grant said.

He felt a hundred thousand years old; nineteen and fresh out of the SHIELD Academy was very far, suddenly. There was no room for—

"And Agent Ward?"

"Director?"

"Word of advice. Stay away from Agent May."

Grant blinked. "Agent May?"

Director sighed, very, very deeply. "_Both_ of them. The older one'll knock you on your ass, and the younger one's sixteen and Romanoff likes her. Just so you know."

And Grant, well.

Grant didn't exactly know what to do with that.

—

"What'd the old man want? He even managed to block _me_ out, and that's like, _impressive_. He only does that when he _really_ has something interesting," the girl from before was sitting on the ledge outside of Fury's office, one knee up to her chest, the other swinging lazily over

Grant stared.

"So," she grinned sunnily at him, "you gonna tell me, or do I have to beat it out of you?"

"Who _are_ you?" he asked, at last.

She blinked at him. "Fury didn't tell you? I'm Skye."

This meant absolutely nothing to Grant. "How did you get in here?"

"Um, do you mean, like, literally, or metaphorically? 'Cause I normally use the badge unless I'm trying to break until Agent Hill's office, but I mean, ugh, that usually gets me caught. She gets mad when I try to rifle through her stuff."

"…I'm calling security."

Skye flopped one shoulder at him. "I dunno why, but okay. They'll just take one look at me and run off."

"_What_?"

She sighed, swung her legs over the ledge. She pounded on the door. "Damn it, old man, you gotta tell the cadets who I am! They always call security, like it's gonna make any difference!"

For a horrible second, Grant thought he heard laughter.

But it was nothing. Skye seemed to be listening for something, but whatever it was, she didn't find, and at last, she turned to look him in the face.

"I'm Skye," she said.

"So you said."

"_Agent_," she enunciated very carefully, "Skye."

"Agent…?"

"Oh my god, you Combat specialists actually _are_ dumb as rocks, I thought Mom was _kidding_. Don't they, like, knock sense into you idiots?"

"Security," Grant muttered to himself. "Definitely security. I'm going to have to talk to someone about—"

"Agent Skye Amelia May," she said. "At your service."

"You're lying," he said flatly. Ward turned to look at all five-foot-six of her, the way her sunny smile turned deadly at the edges.

"Nah," she said. "Not right now."

"Prove it," he said. The words left him before he could stop them in his throat, and by the sudden way she cackled, she knew it as well as he did.

"Oho, you wanna see my badge? Damn, normally I get a dinner invite first."

"I didn't—"

She laughed. "Don't worry, Robot 9000. I don't bite. I wouldn't call security, though, if I were you. They _really_ don't like me."

Agent Grant Ward had absolutely no words left.

"Hey," Skye patted him on the arm as she sashayed past. "If you're lucky, you won't run into me again. If you're not, well…"

She stopped, and smiled so blindingly that his heart did something strange and possibly icky. "Well, then you're in for a surprise, right? Anyway, later dude. I got a couple of recruits to harass. See ya."

She was around the corner and out of his sight before Grant could get another word out. He stood there in the hallway for a moment, before he turned back to the door.

"Why didn't you _warn_ me?!" he said loudly.

And this time, he definitely heard laughter.

—

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_fin_.


	4. girl on the moon

**disclaimer**: disclaimed.  
**dedication**: to the ladies of SHIELD bc GOT DAMN  
**notes**: LET ME EXPLAIN YOU ALL OF THE SYMBOLOGY

**title**: girl on the moon  
**summary**: Okay, so Skye has, like, the _coolest_ grandmother in the world. — Skye, Melinda, Granny May.

—

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Okay, so Skye has, like, the _coolest_ grandmother in the world.

Not to brag or anything, but seriously.

_Actual coolest grandma in the entire world_.

See, the thing is, the May line? Might or might not have been a SHIELD legacy family (hint: they totally were, just sayin'). Status is a total thing in Skye's life, mostly because her mom is a badass, and Aunt Maria is like, second only to Fury in the chain of command, and Aunt Tasha is the _Black freakin' Widow_, and like, _these are the ladies who shaped Skye's whole existence_.

Which is fabulous, obviously, but none of them (not even her mother, and Skye would not be breathing without her mother), not one, has anything on how much Skye's grandmother shaped her personality.

"Stand up, Skye," her grandmother says through thinned lips, hands folded neatly in front of her. She's in silk chamseong, ink-dark blue and covered over in embroidered golden dragons, the buttons done up tightly all the way to her throat. The eldest woman of the May clan stands like a stone in a storm, completely unfazed by any and all things thrown her way—she doesn't look at her daughter or granddaughter, standing on her either side, waiting quietly for the plane to touch down. "Don't lounge, it's undignified."

Skye straightens.

(She can _feel_ her mother's eye-roll.)

"Your daughter is learning, Melinda," Skye's grandmother says—there's no visible indication she'd seen Skye do anything at all, but Skye's pretty sure the woman has eyes in the back of her head. It would explain a lot of things; in their line of work, people usually didn't live long enough to have children, much less grandchildren.

Skye's grandmother is a _badass_.

"Her clothing, of course, leaves much to be desired," and the distaste is palpable in Granny May's voice.

Skye's mother's lips twitched. "It does, does it."

"See that she changes it."

"I _am_ right here, you know," but Skye's used to them talking about her like she isn't here; they've done it since she was a tiny child. "I _do_ have ears."

"Yes, dear, but clearly you don't have _eyes_," her grandmother scolds.

Melinda's lips twitch again, and Skye slouches deep into her jacket. She scowls fiercely out at the world for a moment, skinny arms crossed over a thin chest, ribs expanding and contracting with all the indignant fury a fourteen-year-old can produce.

It's a lot, actually.

No one takes her seriously, around here.

"Stand _up_, Skye," Granny May says again.

Skye straightens regardless.

"Better."

"So how long are we waiting here, again?" Skye asks.

"Until the shipment comes in," Granny May says imperiously.

"Until that plane touches down," Melinda translates, and Skye groans only a little. She fishes her phone out of her pocket, fiddles with it, squints, and then grins.

"They'll be here in five," Skye announces grandly, skips backwards in her sneakers and her shorts, bouncing on the balls of her feet. "And then can we get some food? Pot-stickers sound _so_ awesome right now, _seriously_, I could eat like a _thousand_."

"And you know that… _how_?" Melinda asks, one eyebrow raising towards her hairline as she shoots a searching look over her daughter's wide-eyed-innocent face. "And don't give me that look, Skye, that stopped working after you turned eight and tried to sneak that cat past the house security."

Skye says something vulgar, gets _thwapped_ across the knuckles with her grandmother's favourite comb for it, and then shrugs. "I, um, might have. Done a thing."

"Did you put a tracker in your father's phone again?"

"_Please_, mom, I'm a little more creative than _that_."

"Then where _did_ you put it?"

Skye grins brightly. "Trade secret."

"Ungrateful child," Granny May sighed. She reaches over to pat absently at the top of Skye's head. "Have you grown again?"

"No, Granny," Skye replies, obedient.

"Hmph," the woman says. "Don't get into anywhere you can't get out of, and if you _must_ get into a dangerous place, have someone to pull you out. You're the only grandchild I've got."

"I know," Skye says, smiles a little when her grandmother taps her palms, their old secret signal for _I love you_. A lost thing from another time, it still hangs special in a way that nothing else does.

"Look who's decided to come home," Melinda says, quietly.

Skye spins on her heel, shouts encouragement at the plane descending towards them. She's exuberance itself, itching and scratching and only barely restraining herself from shooting onto the runway and getting in absolutely everyone's way and probably getting herself killed.

Melinda's mouth pulls into something like fondness.

And ten minutes later, Skye throws herself on Fury like a monkey (nearly stomps on his face in her haste to find her tracking device, but what_ever_, it's just the old man, and he couldn't hurt her if he tried), her grandmother and her mother stand very close together.

Skye doesn't notice at all, but here is what they say:

"She's a terror," Melinda says.

There's a long silence between them, something old and deep and untouchable, an unshakeable trust despite the hurt that still lingers there.

"You've done well," Melinda's mother says. "With her."

"Coming from you, that's a high compliment, mother."

The eldest May narrows her eyes at her daughter. "Do not sass your mother."

"No sass, mother, only honestly."

"Well, I suppose you can learn, too."

Melinda actually snorts, the sound coming out through her nose. "I learned a long time ago, mother."

Granny May doesn't say anything for another long moment, simply folds her hands together again. "She's taught you better than I ever did."

They both watch Skye, who's badgering Natasha Romanoff like the woman isn't a walking killing machine. The Black Widow is indulging her.

They all do.

Melinda smiles for real, whole and full.

"I think," she says softly, "that's she's taught us all a thing or two."

Skye's back in front of them in an instant, rocking back and forth with her excitement. "Aunt Tasha says pot-stickers sound good, even though Uncle Clint wants pizza. You gonna come, mom? Granny?"

"Of course," Granny says. "Come along, Melinda."

Skye grins, loops her arm through two generations of her family, and tugs them forward.

—

.

.

.

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_fin_.

**notes2**: to that one chick: lol. lol. lol.


End file.
